


Children of the Quick

by Suldrun



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Gen, Lavellan Backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 20:42:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11517084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suldrun/pseuds/Suldrun
Summary: It started with a dream. Now the world is burning.And like a child that doesn’t understand what she sees, I reach out and light my hand on fire.Solas/Lavellan retelling with a backstory meant to rile the potential elf/human and mage/nonmage drama throughout Inquisition's story. Some deviations from the canon, which will commence in chapter 2.





	Children of the Quick

            People think that time is orderly, with something, something, something happening all the way forward and back, like a neat row of apple trees in a gardener’s orchard. But trees don’t really grow that way, and time is as tangled as an overgrown forest. The possibilities of the future and the memories of the past pull the present apart, til you’re not sure what’s real and what’s never even happened.

            Or maybe that’s just me.

            The tug of the vision was familiar, but as uncomfortable as ever. Terrified, I felt myself twisted around, seized at my middle, jerked quickly forward, and then—dropped. Not my body, of course. I was dreaming.

            The sky was grey as soot. There were only snow-covered mountains as far as I could see from my position suspended in the air. Below me, a small settlement nestled in a valley, filled with shelters made of rugged stone. And there, at the crest of a low peak, a majestic temple rose up like the moon at dusk.

            A crack and a rumble. For one brief moment, the entire valley was cast with blinding green light. And then the temple exploded.

            I watched as the ramparts crumbled like sand and the parapets tumbled down the mountainside like breadcrumbs. The few guards who had been standing there simply evaporated. The sound of the explosion and tumbling stone were muffled in the expanse of snow and mountain, but I could hear the shrieks in my mind. It was the Fade, after all. There were screams and howls and gasping sobs, but the worst was the wicked laughter. These were not the voices of the fallen. These were the voices of spirits.

            The vision continued. I couldn’t move, couldn’t block out the wailing of the spirits, couldn’t close my eyes to the horrors unfolding below me. After the initial explosion, the remains of the temple erupted in a blaze. Men and women rushed out from the homes of the small settlement, pointing and staring. But it wasn’t at the temple. I looked up. The ashen sky seemed to fold in on itself in a whorl of green vapor, the sky beyond crackling and tempestuous. The cacophony of spirits reached an agonizing crescendo, and I couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t take the madness, the screams, the pain, the _chaos_ —

            I awoke with a cry. Morning light streamed in through the crown of the shelter. It was cool and quiet and my heart was pounding. I threw off my blankets and pulled on my boots. Mnemone and Sabaina were still asleep, curled up in their beds. The morning was young; I took care to not wake them as I loosened the taut canvas over the doorframe and exited the shelter.

            As usual, Orhlan was already up, feeding kindle to the hungry firebed. I raised a hand in greeting, which he returned with a nod. Wood benches were arranged in a circle around the firebed, serving as the gathering and meal-sharing place. The aravels, blood of the clan, were stationed here too, for easy access to food and supplies. Shelters sprouted like mushrooms around the gathering place, some farther than others. The halla corral and their keeper’s shelter marked the edge of the campsite, while Gi’hael’s shelter was just a few strides from my own. The canvas was already pulled from his door.

            “Hahren,” I said, my voice quivering. “It’s happening again.”

            Gi’hael did not look up or move from where he was seated on the ground, but he lifted a hand to beckon me sit. Reluctantly I moved to the position of meditation, a small bowl of dried embrium petals burning between us. The aroma was heady but pleasant. I breathed it in and tried to clear my mind. This was Gi’hael’s persistent lesson: to stay calm and in control, no matter the circumstance. Echoes rang in my mind, remnants of the cacophony of spirits and the temple that blew apart like leaves on the wind. Thoughts of Adrehn. Panic held at bay behind a scrim as thin as milk.

            No. This was not the way. I inhaled.

            The gentle, but audible, rhythm of Gi’hael’s breath. Exhale. The soft, sweet smell of embrium. Inhale. The sound of Orhlan’s boots outside. Exhale. The rattling of the trees’ leaves like beetles’ wings.

            “Blessings of the Creators upon our clan and our journey,” Gi’hael said.

            “Sulahn’nehn,” I murmured. Rejoice.

            “Now then,” said Gi’hael. “You speak of the visions?” I nodded. Gi’hael folded his hands. His face was worn, but not fragile, and he wore his pale hair in cords.

            “There was a snow-covered temple in the mountains,” I said. “I watched it… destroyed, from the inside out, consumed in fire and stone in a single moment. And then a gap appeared in the sky above.”

            “A gap?” Gi’hael furrowed his brow.

            “Yes,” I said. “There were green lights and black clouds, and then… nothing. Not darkness or sky, but just some kind of _beyond._ ”

            “The mountains must the Frostbacks, though I know of no temples there. As for the hole, we can only guess. It is a troubling premonition.” Gi’hael paused. I tried to still my trembling hands.

            I’d been thrust into the visions since I was a child. Gi’hael had suggested that I had a special connection to the Fade, and I was pulled by the spiritual energy gathered at these points. In the Fade, the past flowed into the future in a bizarre landscape of dreams, and possibilities crystallized into memory while new futures rose and fell like ocean waves. The spirits and demons populating the mirror-world were attracted to the places of deeper connection to mortal life, places of death, love, justice, compassion, joy, despair, madness—the deepest memories. It was these places I was taught to avoid in my sleep. When the future possibilities of such places appeared in the Fade, though, I was inextricably thrown into these charged potentials, seething and wild with spirits pressing in.

            I had seen an Archdemon rise and fall. I had seen a Chantry burst and scores of mages slaughtered. I had seen my beloved slain. All of these had come to pass. It was only the last that I had tried to change.

            Gi’hael watched me as pain of these past visions hummed in my head.

            “What are you thinking?” he said.

            “About Adrehn.”

            “Yes,” he said. “What would he say?”

            “He’d probably say I should go to the Frostbacks and save the shemlen from the hole in the sky,” I said, barking a laugh. “For all the good it did him.” I’d dreamed of Adrehn’s death for days, and I did everything I could to stop it from coming true. He promised me we wouldn’t let it happen. And then when it did it was my own damn fault.

            “I see,” said Gi’hael. He moved to stand. “Let us think on it, and perhaps Dirthamen will grant us some wisdom. For now, we must concern ourselves with the preparation of the aravels and the path to Canas.”

            The smell of griddle-cakes on the firebed wafted in. Gi’hael smiled. “And breakfast,” he said. I smiled weakly in return, but I was bothered by the thought of Adrehn.

            It nagged at me as I ate, the clan now bustling with morning activity. Sabaina and Mnemone were up and waiting for a bite of griddle-cake, while other elves were already packing the aravels with their beddings: thick blankets rolled up around the slats of the disassembled beds. After the shelter frames and coverings were secured in the aravels, the clan began to move.

            We walked along the base of the Vimmark Mountains, tracing the coast. In the summertime it was a relief to be by the sea, and the route was a familiar one. We hoped to arrive near Canas by nightfall, bringing halla milk and cheese, leather goods, and whittled trinkets of ironbark to exchange for flour, spices, and wine.

            At some point, Mnemone fell in step beside me. I was absently fingering my necklace, a round stone with a hole in the middle, threaded through a leather cord.

            “You’ve been keeping to yourself today,” she said. “Daydreaming about sticky buns?”

            “No,” I said.

            “Well, I am. Maybe they’ll have those little pies again, the ones with cinnamon baked in ‘em,” she said, musing. “The shem don’t do much right, but they sure know their sweets.” I didn’t even hear her. I just burst.

            “Could I have saved him? I could have saved him. I _know_ it. I can feel it. It was just a dumb mistake, a stupid fucking mistake, but _my_ mistake!”

            Mnemone looked at me.

            “Tatsel,” she said. “It’s been years. Years. Why are you back on this?”

            “I had another vision.” I told her what I had seen. Besides Gi’hael, Mnemone was the only one who knew about my visions. She was my closest friend, and Adrehn’s sister. Now, she was quiet. “It’s bad, Nem. I keep thinking of what Adrehn would do. He always fought for his ideals, no matter how crazy or dangerous. He thought people were better than they are, and braver, and stronger. He believed.”

            “And that’s the thinking that got him killed. Look, Tatsel, if you go traipsing into the Frostbacks on some lovelorn martyr-mission, he’ll still be a dead fool, and you’ll end up one too.” Mnemone’s jaw was set. “Leave him be. He’s in our memory. Isn’t that enough?”

            The question hung there. Mnemone slipped behind an aravel and disappeared into the throng.

            It wasn’t enough. I had to know.

            I had to try.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Canas is a made-up village on the coast of the Free Marches, somewhere between Kirkwall and Ostwick.  
> \- The structure of my Dalish shelters is inspired by Mongolian gers.


End file.
